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Lifts her hand
with uncommon grace.
She could pass for
the sophisticate
I’m too clumsy to be.
Touches cheeks
blushed berry in
steep hollows.
I wish I knew who
sculpted her face.
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I don’t know
that girl. The only
thing familiar about
her is how she wears
fear in her eyes.
IT IS THAT GIRL
Who gets in the car with
Grandfather. That girl who
rides, silent as a ghost, for
ninety-three minutes, barely
even acknowledging her
grandfather’s faltering small talk.
That girl who stares out
the window, counting water
tanks and watching big and
bigger American flags flap
in the wind. That girl who
quick-freezes after arrival.
Coming? asks Grandfather,
